by Arlene Kay
A sudden brainstorm made me plunge into the back of the spacious closet where CeCe had once stored her shoes by type and season. I took a more minimalist approach to shoes and every other wardrobe staple. Unlike the Swann tribe, Eja Kane was stylistically stunted. It took persistence, but I found it: a pristine black jogging suit with white piping and tons of attitude. I’d purchased it in a fit of conscience after glimpsing a particularly unflattering photo. Almost immediately, buyer’s remorse had set in. The offending garment stared reproachfully at me until I’d banished it untouched to closet Siberia. Tonight it would finally get a star turn.
The phone rang at 5:45 p.m., announcing Anika’s arrival in the lobby. Her attire, a loose-fitting emerald number, was as flawless as her complexion; her blond hair was pinned in a loose chignon that accentuated spectacular cheekbones. Both of us wore athletic shoes, although hers appeared to have been used before, probably during sessions with her personal trainer. Neither one of us wore jewelry.
“You look perfect, Eja.” Anika lowered her voice. “But you might want to tie your hair back. Exercise is a messy business, you know.”
Hair is my one point of vanity. While many women bemoaned their thinning locks, mine remained thick, dark, and wavy, a legacy of my staunch Russian forebearers.
Anika gave me a conspiratorial grin. “Tell me. Are we really there to exercise, or is this an undercover assignment?”
“No tricks,” I said, “strictly legit. If I get some background material, that’s a bonus. Trust me, this is a crusade.”
“Fine, dear,” Anika said. “I sent Po back home. We can walk down Newbury and get there in plenty of time if we hustle.”
Hustle we did. It’s shameful, but her sixty-year-old form floated comfortably ahead of my heaving body. We arrived at Shaolin City as the church clock boomed the hour and the dojo door closed.
“You made it,” Justin Ming said with an easy smile. “And brought a most welcome guest.” He bowed to Anika. “Greetings, Mrs. Swann.”
“You know each other?” I asked, gasping for breath.
“I had a small part in the fitness event she sponsored at the Boys and Girls Clubs.” Justin flashed a fetching pair of dimples. “Nothing particularly memorable.”
Anika extended her hand in a charming gesture. “Nonsense, Mr. Ming. The children loved you. I was merely window dressing.”
Justin waved us in toward a well-appointed room where supplicants were seated in a circle around Master Avery Moore. There was absolute silence as if they were praying or meditating. I gave Justin a puzzled look.
“They are expressing reverence for the master and freeing their minds to learn.” He raised his eyebrows. “Worth trying on occasion, wouldn’t you say?”
Avery Moore nodded a welcome and addressed the group. There was a mix of genders and ages, but the common factor appeared to be total absorption in his words. This crowd was intense and very fit. Even the women had plenty of muscle. I noticed the gusher, the shapely brunette I’d seen earlier hovering about the master. Tonight she wore a red bandanna that highlighted her olive complexion. She occupied pride of place next to Justin and directly across from Avery Moore. From her air of familiarity, I supposed she was a regular.
The master stood slowly and started speaking. “How many of us truly know ourselves? Kung fu is a discipline, something that will guide you to a path of health and happiness.” He inhaled and gazed at us with omniscient emerald eyes. “Learn the ten Shaolin Laws, and they will set you free. They bind us as a community.” With a flick of his hand, he summoned Justin Ming, who leapt to his side ready to obey. “Confidence. Awareness. Agility. These things lead to self-control and mastery. Study Sifu Ming for inspiration.”
Justin Ming executed a series of quick, graceful maneuvers worthy of a dancer. For a big man, he certainly knew how to move. It wasn’t spiritual inspiration I saw on the faces of other women in the group as they watched Ming’s performance. They seemed transfixed, mesmerized, and thoroughly turned on, a carnal triumph of the flesh.
The quest for his favors heated up as the snarky brunette turned febrile eyes on her competitors. One willowy blonde almost drooled. Their behavior was a common ailment that I understood so well. Deming also has a black belt in karate. A lithe, flexible man is capable of incredible acrobatics and can be dynamite in the sack.
Master Moore ended his soliloquy and urged us to grab a mat and start stretching. Justin stood in the center, serving as our coach, cheerleader, and examplar of clean living. Anika dove right in, showing exceptional skill and zeal. While I was no superstar, I managed to finish the routine without disgracing myself or sustaining injury. Meanwhile the master walked about, complimenting and encouraging each student with a friendly smile or pat on the back.
“This is not new to you, Mrs. Swann. Perhaps you will not be challenged.” Avery Moore pointedly omitted me from his comment. The man obviously valued honesty and feared that any greater challenge would kill me.
“My skills are rusty, Master. Your guidance will be most helpful.” Anika knew how to ladle up praise when it suited her. Humility was prized in this community.
“Private lessons might suit you better. That has been the preferred method through the ages, and progress is faster.” For a saintly guy, Avery Moore had a smooth sales pitch. Private lessons were a costly venture for anyone other than a Swann.
“My daughter-in-law would join me,” Anika said. “Is that possible?”
“Of course. Justin will accommodate your schedule.” With a quick bow, the master glided away and out the door.
“Private lessons?” I asked. “They’ll laugh me out of here.”
Anika patted my cheek. “Don’t sell yourself short. You’re doing fine.” She swiveled toward Justin Ming. “I guess class is over now. Mr. Ming is occupied with his admirers, so we’ll speak with him tomorrow.”
Occupied, indeed. The sexy sifu was holding court, doing his best to avoid bloodshed while accommodating both the eye-popping blonde and the predatory brunette.
“I know her,” Anika whispered. “We’ve met at several charity events.”
“Which one?”
“The blonde. That’s Heather Elliot Exley, Horton’s wife. Isn’t she lovely?”
There was that name again. Horton Exley was Deming’s frantic client. If her behavior towards Justin was any indication, Heather was the clingy type who needed constant reassurance. No wonder her hubby was antsy.
“Let’s stop at Starbucks for some chai,” I suggested. “We need to coordinate our story in case Deming gets suspicious.”
INSOMNIA AND I are old friends. Small wonder that I embrace the Sandman’s visits as a gift. After the evening’s exertion, I fell into a fugue state from which nothing and no one except Deming Swann could rouse me.
Sometime after midnight he slipped under the covers, put his arms around me, and gently kissed my neck. I’d deliberately worn a slinky black number in hopes of just such an encounter. Some women sleep in the nude, but I have curves to spare and serious issues with self-esteem and body image. I address them by wearing a dark, filmy silk that hides a multitude of flaws. It’s cowardly, I know, but an MFA from Brown is cold comfort to a struggling endomorph like me whose first husband dumped her for a sylph.
“Hush, baby,” Deming said. “Go back to sleep.” He slid the strap down my arm and stroked my skin. “So soft. So beautiful.” He touched the lacy undergarment beneath the silk. “Hmm. What is this? Feels like satin.” He slipped the thong off me, slowly, sensuously, and dangled it in the air. “Flimsy, isn’t it, for such a pricey little thing?” Deming’s voice grew low and husky. “Worth every penny.”
Suddenly sleep was the last thing on my mind. Even darkness couldn’t hide my full throttle flush. I leaned back against a wall of rock-hard muscles and sighed. “Don’t stop. Please. It feels so good.”
>
“This?” he asked, letting his lips wander. “Or maybe this.” Deming has large graceful hands with the long, slim fingers of a surgeon. When those fingers explore my nether parts, I melt faster than cheap chocolate.
“I missed you today,” Deming whispered. “I’ll be glad when this wedding spectacle is over, and we can start a normal life together.”
I studied his face in the pale glow of the night light. No surprise that he had worked his way up two coasts, devouring debutantes like salty snacks. His thick black mane curtained off the perfect profile of a film star. Deming had been the dark angel to his twin’s blond beauty, but they shared their mama’s beautiful eyes. I glanced away, unable to face the heat of those hazel orbs.
“Hey . . . not getting cold feet, are you?” He moved closer, his lips parting.
“Never. In fact, my feet and every part of me are toasty warm.” I’d never spoken truer words. My body temperature soars whenever he comes within striking distance. I’m emotionally vulnerable, out of control, ecstatic.
I cuddled even closer to him and pressed my lips against his. “I may be a little bit rusty, though. Let’s spend tonight brushing up on basics.”
Chapter Three
THE SIFU DIDN’T waste any time. The next morning, soon after Deming departed, Justin Ming phoned to schedule our private lessons.
“What time best suits you and Mrs. Swann?” he asked.
We agreed that 3:00 p.m. would work and that at least two lessons a week would be required. Luckily, after completing my most recent manuscript, I had time to spare and some extra cash as well. Weekly sessions were a bit of a letdown for someone who hoped for instant success, but even incremental progress was better than nothing.
“Then we can assess your situation,” Justin said without a trace of irony.
“Should I practice in between sessions?” I asked. “Remember, I’m on a tight schedule.”
“Ah, yes, your wedding.” He made a noise that from anyone else might have been a chortle. “Perhaps you can also attend some of the group sessions in the evening. Many students find that helpful.”
“Sure. Sounds great.” My mind wandered as luscious Mr. Ming launched into the sales spiel about uniforms and gear. After all, how much happy talk can one woman absorb in a phone call?
“I’ll start this evening,” I said. “Mrs. Swann might not be available, though.” From what Deming said, his caseload would keep him occupied for most of the week. Bolin, however, liked his wife at his side and seldom missed dinner at home. As the guiding force at Swann, Sevier and Miles, he could do whatever he pleased.
Afterwards, I immediately contacted Anika. Three o’clock worked for her, and we agreed to meet at Shaolin City that next afternoon. As I planned my schedule, I daydreamed a bit, did some maintenance chores, and walked Cato around the Common at such a brisk pace that he protested vigorously.
My group session at the dojo would be a solo act, but I felt less anxious about that since the steamy night with my fiancé. It sounds reactionary, especially coming from a card-carrying, fire-breathing feminist. A woman’s self-esteem should never be dependent on a man, even a spectacular specimen like Deming Swann. But having him at my side buoyed my confidence more than the burgeoning sales of my last three novels. Hard to believe that for two decades we were adversaries who derived great pleasure from avoiding and taunting each other.
Perhaps exercise really does release endorphins. After returning home, I spent three productive hours outlining the plot for my next mystery.
I resisted the temptation to browse Internet sales or to Google wedding sites. Even the telephone kept its vow of silence. When five o’clock rolled around, I leapt up, ready to storm the dojo in search of perfection.
I trotted through the Back Bay as if I owned it, smiling at strangers, jaywalking with abandon. As I approached Newbury Comics I noticed a couple in the doorway locked in a passionate embrace. The man was a stranger, but something about his partner’s expert haircut jogged my memory. Of course. It was the saucy brunette who had slobbered all over Justin Ming. She had an odd name that I couldn’t quite recall, something Greek I think. This time she confined her favors to the slightly paunchy middle-aged man at her side. Here was a woman who took Shaolin Law number one very seriously, especially the part about loving your fellow disciples. I added fickle and nympho to my mental image of her and shrugged it off.
Following orders is a skill set of mine, ever since Catholic school. I entered the Shaolin City pro shop and dutifully extracted a list of must have items. Justin Ming hadn’t stinted on anything, and despite my good intentions, the resulting tab gave me sticker shock. I surrendered my credit card, signed a disclaimer, and was given an official locker key that conferred an immediate sense of belonging. Maybe I could achieve my fitness goals and pass for one of the Swanns’ social set. Stranger things have happened.
Back in the changing room I donned roomy black pajamas and preened in front of the mirror. Was it my writer’s imagination, or did I already look lean and mean? Speaking of mean . . . a heated conversation, conducted in furious whispers, caught my ear. I never deliberately eavesdrop, but writers learn so much by observing others that it is almost their duty. In this case, the female antagonists from the other night were at it again. Heather Exley was pinned to the back wall by the pointed talon of the unnamed brunette. She sprinkled expletives into the mix and growled the name Justin along with a puzzling reference to bullion. I leaned in, trying to make sense of a tricky situation. Unfortunately, just at the point where blows might have been struck, a gong sounded. As both women stopped the fracas and filed into the main meeting room, Mrs. Exley fired a passing shot at her adversary.
“This isn’t over, bitch,” she hissed. “Fuck with me, and you’ll be sorry.”
I scrunched into a corner, yearning for a cloaking device. Innocent bystanders can easily become victims, and I was a stranger in a particularly foreign land. My scheme seemed to work until something alerted the brunette. She turned and snarled a warning at me. “Mind your own business, whoever you are. It’s healthier that way.”
The encounter robbed me of enthusiasm for our group session. I filed in like an obedient serf after keeping a weather eye out for trouble. Master Moore explained that we were exploring the second Shaolin Law that required students to be diligent in pursuing their art. He mentioned something alarming about physical and mental fitness too. I tried to observe the two combatants, but they were positioned on opposite sides of the room beyond my line of sight. Besides, I was there to improve my conditioning, not to stir up controversy. I stretched valiantly and made a tentative, somewhat feeble effort to learn a basic kung fu pattern. Justin Ming appeared and strolled down the line, observing each participant. He paused when he reached me.
“How are you, Ms. Kane?” He stepped behind me and moved my hands into the correct position. “There. That’s much better. Side stretch, there you go. Now try a thrust.” The bland expression on his handsome face called the double entendre into doubt. Was I suspicious, too inclined to tar everyone else with my own lascivious brush?
“Much better. Keep practicing.” Justin whisked away and returned to the center of the room.
Heather Exley curled her lip and refocused on the sifu. I envied her limber body and the way she maneuvered it so effortlessly. Even in my youth, I was ungainly, despite lessons in tap and ballet. During gymnastics class, I earned the distinction of being the only child unable to perform a cartwheel or climb a rope. Talk about humiliation.
A sudden thought brightened my gloom. According to Deming, Heather Elliot Exley was one of least intelligent females on the face of the earth. Perhaps the Creator had compensated for mental deficit by awarding her great beauty and a kick-ass body. I’m uncertain which of us got the better bargain.
Justin Ming clapped his hands and gestured for silence. “Now we try
the squat and kick.” He modeled the exercise for us, moving in a rapid, sensuous blur that was worth watching but impossible to follow. Apparently most of the class shared my view.
“I will ask our student, Miss Phaedra Jones, to also demonstrate. Learning is facilitated by viewing another student.”
I experienced one of those “aha” moments as the brunette brawler from the locker room stepped center stage. Phaedra Jones. So that was her name. I had to admit it was pretty cool, a Greek morality play straight from the pen of Euripides. His Phaedra also failed to control her emotions and had paid the ultimate price. I hoped that her modern namesake would fare better.
All that ruminating cost me. I totally missed Phaedra’s little show and Justin’s narrative. When we were told to replicate her movements, the rest of the class sprang into action. My version was woefully inadequate, but I was shielded from shame by a sizable pillar. My relief was short-lived when I glanced behind me and spied Master Avery Moore, beaming gently, missing nothing. I had skated by the first Shaolin Law, but with my lackluster performance and spotty record, commandment number two was a problem. I had a bad attitude.
Class ended at 8 p.m., and I prepared to flee. My escape plan was perfect. Only the master’s smiling visage stood in my way.
“You are troubled, Ms. Kane. Frustrated?” His voice was gentle, but the words had bite.
“This is difficult for me, Master. I must try harder. Tomorrow I start private sessions.”
“Fine. Guidance is something we all require. But it must be reinforced through discipline and practice.” He patted my shoulder and glided toward Justin Ming, the sizzling sifu, who was surrounded by his honor guard of doting females. Heather Exley led the pack, but the one called Phaedra was nowhere to be found. Had she slipped out to tryst with her other sweetie, or was she nestled in Justin’s office awaiting a very private lesson?